


sweetest in the storm

by blanchtt



Category: Carol (2015)
Genre: Crossover, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 05:10:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15856863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanchtt/pseuds/blanchtt
Summary: Later, the stars out in the dark sky, they end up on the deck, Therese humming something as she smokes and Carol sitting next to her, smoking too, and there are no more thoughts of joining the waters below, only far more dangerous ones now about what it would be like to never go home, to keep walking forward with Therese and never look back.





	sweetest in the storm

**Author's Note:**

> Titanic AU.

 

 

 

 

 

 

She’d left dinner mid-dessert after a biting remark to Mr. Andrews, and no one had stopped her. She’d ran so blindly through the promenade deck that she’d collided into other passengers, yet no one had stopped her. She’d stopped, sobbing, at the stern of the ship, probably in view of several upper decks, patrolling officers, and God knows who else, and still no one had stopped her.

 

It had seemed like a good idea when she’d thought of it, in a moment of desperation. Good—not moral, not enjoyable. What would be the use, Carol had thought, calming her sobs with shaky, determined breaths and wiping at her wind-chilled checks, to live so profound a lie? And then to bring a child or two into it, too, inevitably, and lie to them as well.

 

But now, committed, the water dark and fast-moving below her, waves black and sharp-tipped, Carol grips tighter at the cold steel railing of the Titanic’s stern, swallows, wonders suddenly if this is such a good idea after all.

 

Ten stories to the water, if she survives the fall. Three enormous turbines, churning up a wake rough enough to drown in. In a second, the deck would be too far away for anyone to hear, if she were to change her mind and shout. In a minute, the ship would be too far away to even notice one person bobbing in the ocean. In an hour, she’d be lost, alone in ice-capped water a thousand miles from the nearest land.

 

 _Let go_ , Carol tells herself, but finds her hands won’t let her, despite how cold they are already.

 

“Don’t do it,” a voice says, tentative, and Carol almost laughs at the interruption, turns her head to find a thin young man standing just at arm’s length, a hand held out as if to reach for her. He’s dressed warmly, if plainly—pants and a shirt, a flannel, and a jacket over it all, a cap on his head hiding short brown hair, though longer whips fall in his eyes. It makes Carol quite aware of how cold it is at the back of the ship, the wind whipping by them both and with her only in a light evening dress. She’s missed hearing him approach, and the young man repeats a little more firmly, “Take my hand. I’ll pull you back in.”

 

At that Carol does laugh, a short, sharp breath.

 

“Excuse me?” she replies peevishly. She knows her own mind, thank you very much, and some pre-pubescent _boy_ whose voice hasn’t even broken isn’t going to tell her what to do. Nevertheless, the young man holds up his cigarette, gets close enough to take a final drag and then pitch it over the end of the boat. Carol hardly sees the night and the water take it—the tiny glow of the butt is lost almost immediately. “Stay where you are,” she repeats. “I mean it. I'll let go.”

 

“No, you won’t. You would have done it already,” the young man says, not mockingly but only truthful, and Carol feels her mouth drop open wordlessly, and then unable to keep a frown off her face because now he’s offering up his hand again as he moves a step closer. “Now come on, take my hand.”

 

 _And the use?_ she thinks bitterly again. _To what end?_

 

“Go away,” Carol repeats, to herself and to him. He can’t possibly understand. The finality in her tone has his smile drop away, expression sobering quickly.

 

“Ever been to Wisconsin?” he asks, ambling a step closer, hand still outstretched, and the question is so ridiculous that Carol scoffs, turns away and looks back out at the water. The sun has set long ago, and looking out at the horizon means it’s difficult to discern where the water ends and the sky begins.

 

“No,” Carol replies. Her fingers hurt, yet still they do not let go.

 

“They have some of the coldest winters around.” She can hear from his voice that the young man is suddenly quite near, and Carol turns her head, sees he’s leaning against the railing next to her. Closer, fine features are more apparent, slim brows and small mouth. “Terry Belivet, by the way.” He holds out his hand again as if to shake, meets her eyes, but Carol sees through it, leaves him standing like that.

 

He continues, undeterred. “I grew up there. Once, when I was a kid, my father and I were ice-fishing out on Lake Wissota. I went through some thin ice and I'm telling you, water that cold, like that right down there.” Terry looks down pointedly at the water, and then takes another step closer, hand skidding along the rail, close to her own. No ring, Carol notices, almost laughs at the absurdity of noticing such a thing at this moment.

 

“Takes your breath away. Can’t do anything except think about the pain. Come on. You don't want to do this. Give me your hand.”

 

She’s a coward and so Carol stills the tremble that threatens to take over her as she turns around, one hand over the other, gripping the rail safely, and then the same with her feet, though the heels she’s wearing make it difficult to have confidence in her steps. Terry smiles encouragingly, takes a step closer, and there are a lot of things in her future she’s not looking forward to, but a cold, lonely death is no longer one of them. At least not right now.

 

“Carol Aird,” she replies softly, and Terry takes it as an invitation, moves forward, slips his arms under hers and clasps his hands behind her back, secure.

 

“I’ve got you,” Terry says with conviction, voice close to her ear, and pulls, and for some reason Carol trusts him, clutches at his jacket and pushes up against the rail with her feet, and the combined force of his pulling and her pushing means Terry stumbles backwards, Carol falling in a heap on top of him as they land safely on the deck.

 

They land in a thump and a tangle of limbs, and her upbringing kicks in, overpowering. As much as she’s grateful for his help and, apparently, for cushioning her fall, it would look indecent to be found this way on deck, so alone and so far from the light, and so Carol pushes at his shoulder to lift herself away, a knee between his legs, but Terry scrambles back too, elbow braced against the deck, and Carol touches his chest, a slip, warm under his coat, and hardly has time to say anything before there is the sound of shouting and men running on deck and they’re surrounded, lead by a man in spectacles.

 

Tommy—Harge’s eyes, always watching.

 

“Harge,” she says, ushered up and off the deck by Tommy and onto a nearby bench. She watches the master at arms grab Terry’s upper arm, draw manacles from his belt that look much too big and shiny, no joke. “Harge, please.”

 

“What made you think you could lay a hand on my fiancée?” Harge asks, pacing the deck in front of them all. It’s clearly rhetorical, a pompous speech to show how much he cares about her wellbeing. “I want charges brought,” he continues, speaking to the master at arms, who has Terry in the manacles now. “I want the full force of the law when we land. I want—”

 

“Harge!” Carol speaks up, sharp, pushes away the blanket Tommy is trying to drape around her shoulders like she’s an invalid. “I fell.” She swallows, tries not to glance at Terry and meets Harge’s eyes instead. “I fell, and Mr. Belivet here saved me. I was trying to get a look at the, uh… the propellers.”

 

Harge looks at her as if she’s an idiot, which she deserves, but the lie must appease him because he only says, “Ah.”

 

“Well, we’ve got ourselves a hero, then,” the master at arms says, claps Terry on the shoulder, and it’s only then, as the manacles are taken off Terry’s wrists and Harge makes some comment about women and machinery that Carol breathes out, the lie complete. With the twist of a key the manacles are gone, and Terry brings her wrist up to her chest, massages it with the fingers of her other hand.

 

“I suppose some compensation is due,” the master at arms says, making no show of lowering his voice or hiding his remark before leaving. Carol watches Harge retrieve a twenty dollar bill from his jacket, could very well smack him, and Harge must see the look on her face, must feel it from the way Terry refuses the bill.

 

“Perhaps you could join us for dinner tomorrow to regale our group with your heroic tale,” Harge says, not a question, and he pockets the bill, nods to Terry before turning to Carol, arm outstretched. “Carol.” 

 

He says it like a dog’s name, and Carol sighs, stands up from the bench and pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders. She hasn’t had a chance to thank Terry, at least not in words. But Harge’s arm is heavy around her shoulders and it wouldn’t do to bring more attention to the situation than there already is now on it. 

 

She only manages to look over her shoulder as Harge leads her away, arm firm around her. Terry stands, shoulders hunched and pulling her cap down lower, left with Tommy who’s offering her a cigarette. Not ideal, Carol knows, because it's not done out of charity. Tommy’s a bastard if there ever was one. But even if Harge has got his eye on her now, at least she’s safe for the moment.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

From the open window of their private promenade, Carol can see that the next morning is bright and just as cool, warranting a coat for a stroll. She choses the closest thing allowed her, a short white overcoat embroidered with gold thread to wear over her dress, and leaves her room, lets the door shut behind herself with a quiet click and quickly steps down the hallway.

 

It’s not as if she’s been forbidden explicitly from doing so, but if anyone else were to know about it there would surely be attempts to stop her.

 

She meets Terry on the third class deck, steps out into the sunlight and finds her leaning against the railing, looking out to sea.

 

In the sunlight her close-cropped hair looks darker, eyes lighter, and the fit of her clothes accentuates her trim figure. She is dashing, Carol thinks, in that quiet, unassuming way some women are, and Carol feels that dark and empty future, once iron-clad, seem much less set in stone as she approaches her.

 

It’s only when they’re walking on deck, words quickly swallowed by the wind and out of earshot of anyone that might be tailing them, that Carol pauses, turns, and leans against a railing, sees Terry follow her lead and do the same.

 

“So. Terry,” Carol says, lights a cigarette because out here there’s no one to tell her it’s uncouth, to yank it from her hands and extinguish it with a reprimand. In fact, Terry reaches into her jacket, fishes a cigarette out herself and accepts Carol’s light. “That’s an original name.” Carol takes a drag, knows the things that may be hidden under the surface of it, words it just so and tosses the question out lightly, casually. “What’s it stand for?”

 

There are many things Terry could say. _I was named after my grandfather. It’s the name my parents decided on. It’s short for Theodore or Thomas or who knows what else._ But Carol’s sure Terry couldn’t have missed the way she’d practically felt her up the night before, and Carol turns just a bit, tilts her head toward her, meets hazel eyes and lets her hand slide along the rail, just enough for their fingertips to brush.

 

_I understand._

 

There is a long moment where Terry seems to appraise her, gaze wary as her cigarette nearly burns out, and Carol’s heart seems to jump to her throat and lodge there because all she wants to do is ask this simple thing and hear a simple answer, and it’s all she can do to keep from saying anything else until Terry speaks again.

 

“Therese,” Terry says finally, in a tone more natural to the body that’s under all menswear, Carol guesses, and Carol feels a smile break out on her face, too wide, and slides her hand back along the rail and away because everyone else sees only Terry and Carol and this is barely appropriate on many levels as is.

 

“Therese Belivet,” Carol replies slowly, enjoying the sound of it, and flicks her cigarette, sends ash spinning away before taking another drag. It’s a name that no doubt carries a history, unlike hers. “And you’re a photographer.”

 

“Yes,” Therese says, lighting up at that, and they finish smoking, toss the remains into the wide North Atlantic ocean and take seats on two empty deckchairs nearby.

 

“My portfolio, for your consideration,” Therese says, a hint of self-deprecation to her words, and Carol takes the oversized brown folder Therese has been carrying with her, learns that it contains her photographs—some of which Carol keeps hidden under the cover as she appreciates them, portfolio angled away from the eyes of anyone who might walk by.

 

“They’re good,” Carol says, lingers on one that must be of a street in Paris, the river Seine, a window's shutter, and then flicks to the next and finds it’s one she has to turn over quickly—a nude. “Your… companion?” She’s not sure how to word it, and flips it over, looks at the next photograph. It’s the same woman again, face in three-quarters view, half-bathed in sunlight. Despite her nudity, the focus is clearly not on her body. “You’ve used her several times.”

 

“Prostitute,” Therese says, and Carol looks up, hardly knows how to react to that. Therese makes a flustered noise, quickly adds, “And I only hired her because I had a colleague say I should include some people. Too many landscape photographs.”

 

Therese points out the next photo, which is of the Seine again, and Carol only laughs.

 

A comfortable silence falls over them, Therese letting her inspect the rest of the photos with limited commentary. As she does so, careful to keep them from blowing away in the breeze, Carol wonders. 

 

She has no illusions about the life she lives. Her own mother has pressed the point home countless times—a good name with bad debt is better than no name and bad debt. At the very least, they can cling to the name and the doors it opens. Her life, she tells herself, is no doubt better than the majority of other women’s she’s seen, because life only offers two options—wife or whore, and wife’s not much better than whore unless he’s got money.

 

But Carol finds a photograph of a pier, turns it over and sees Santa Monica written on the back, and is this what it must be like not to lie?

 

“Why can't I be like you, Therese?” Carol breathes, fingers lingering over a photo of Santa Monica. It slips past her lips before she can even plumb the depths of how incredibly personal it is, how much of that part of herself that she’s just laid bare for a stranger, in effect. And she must have stunned Therese into a new kind of silence, because Carol flips to the next photo, of a sandy, sunny beach filled with people. “Just… head out for the horizon whenever I feel like it.” It’s an embarrassing amount of emotion to dump on some poor unsuspecting woman, but for some reason, grasping, Carol looks up, asks, “Say we'll go there, sometime, to that pier, even if we only ever just talk about it.”

 

 **“** We're going,” Therese says, and Carol believes her because Therese sits back in her chair, watches her with a smile. “We'll drink cheap beer, go on the rollercoaster, ride horses on the beach, right in the surf.” Therese’s voice is warm, drawing on pleasant memories, and then she adds, “You have to ride like a cowboy, though. None of that side-saddle stuff. I don’t know how.”

 

 **“** You mean one leg on each side?” Carol asks, and lets a hand rest over her breast, fakes a shocked face. “Scandalous.” It gets a laugh out of Therese, and then, because she actually doesn’t know how to ride any other way, Carol asks, “Can you show me?”

 

“Sure.” It comes with an easy nod. “I’m no expert, but I can try if you’d like.”

 

“I think I would.”

 

_“Carol!”_

 

Carol recognizes her mother’s irritated voice, snaps the portfolio shut, passes it quickly to Therese. If her mother were to ask to see it, she could hardly deny her, but it would be improper for anyone to ask Therese to hand it over. She stands, draws her coat closer around herself, and nods to her mother and her entourage of friends, sees Therese stand too out of the corner of her eye like a gentleman.

 

“Mother, may I introduce Terry Belivet,” Carol says, watches her mother’s friends nod stiffly except for one, a portly woman in a dark dress. Carol swallows, sees her mother’s lips are drawn tight.

 

“Charmed, I'm sure,” her mother says. It’s icy, and Carol walks toward her, knows it won’t help anyone to linger.

 

“Shall we go dress, mother?” She takes her elbow, turns and thanks her lucky stars that her mother follows after her without complain. “See you at dinner, Terry,” she calls over her shoulder.

 

It’s a hasty exit, but she leaves Therese in the much more comforting company of a Mrs. Molly Brown, Carol overhears, and the fact that they don’t follow them to catch up on meaningless gossip can only be a good thing.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

The dress she’s chosen is one of her favorites, because for once she actually cares.

 

Carol runs her hands over the beaded fabric, takes a look in the mirror just above the fireplace—lipstick in place, hair perfectly curled, and a smile on her face. How long has it been, Carol thinks, since she’s seen that? She leaves their stateroom, follows Harge and her mother down white hallways and past other opulently dressed men and women attending dinner alongside them. Harge walks ahead of her, discussing something with her mother, and Carol gladly lets him, watches them head down the first-class staircase, her mother on his arm. Better her mother than herself.

 

She descends the stairs in time to see Harge brush past Therese, waiting at the bottom with her hand outstretched to greet him, a clear snub. But Therese takes it in stride, turns a little to her left and seems to be practicing something, words or a gesture, as Carol descends.

 

She’s halfway down by the time Therese turns and looks up at her, and it makes Carol’s heart skip a beat at the expression on Therese’s face, one she’s certainly never seen or wanted to see on Harge’s—eyes wide and mouth just a little slack before she catches herself, composes herself and reaches out for Carol’s hand as Carol walks up to her, to brush her lips against the back of it in a kiss before guiding her down the last few sets of stairs.

 

There is something else there now, too, a sparkle in her eye that Carol’s drawn to. _Trouble_ , her mother would say, frowning darkly.

 

“Saw that once in a nickelodeon and always wanted to give it a try,” Therese says, offering her arm, and Carol takes it, squeezes the crook of her arm as they head into the dining room.

 

She has no doubt Therese can play her part. She’s done so well enough to get this far in life. But it’s shocking, how much confidence confuses people. They stop and greet important people, Carol introducing each couple to Therese as Terry, and to her it seems almost obvious that Therese is a woman. But perhaps to blue bloods who’ve never worked a day in their life, Therese is another smooth-faced young gentleman.

 

“Pretend you’re an heir to a goldmine and you’ll fit right in,” Carol hears, and sees that Molly has joined them, taking Therese’s other arm as she imparts her wisdom on her, and now Carol understands where the sleek black suit and shoes and pomade have come from, and feels a rush of emotion for Molly, who must know. She’d been so taken with Therese that she’s only just now taken in the suit, the way it fits Therese and the way Therese wears it as if she were born to. How different would her life be, Carol thinks, if she could move around the world like Therese.

 

“Ah, Terry,” Harge says as they approach their table, and Carol lets go of Therese’s arm, finds herself corralled away by a waiter and takes a seat at Harge’s side as Therese sits a few seats to her left, next to Molly and Mr. Andrews. There’s no warm fraternal jest to the comment that follows, only venom. “You could almost pass for a gentleman.”

 

“Almost,” Therese agrees lightly, taking the napkin from off her plate and placing it on her lap, and Carol reaches for her glass of water, stifles a smile by taking a long drink from her glass.

 

“Tell us of the accommodations in steerage, Mr. Belivet,” her mother begins mercilessly, swallowing a spoonful of caviar from her plate. It’s served around the table, and no doubt her mother has her eye on Therese as she declines it from the waiter. “I hear they're quite good on this ship.”

 

“The best I've ever seen, ma'am,” Therese says with a smile. Despite the slight, she’s as buoyant as ever—Carol’s not sure how she does it, given that she’s sulked many a times at this same table under far less insulting comments. “Hardly any rats.”

 

It gets a chuckle out of a few of their dinner guests, and in due time the first course is served.

 

“Mr. Belivet is joining us from third class,” Harge says as they begin to eat, as if it weren’t already obvious from her mother’s remarks. What possesses them all to cut each other down so, Carol still doesn’t know. Money? No sense of purpose? Either way, Harge laughs, explaining, “He was of some assistance to my fiancée last night.”

 

Before either she or Therese have a moment to begin on that story—which god forbid could might Therese look like a decent, upstanding person—her mother cuts in again, a smile on her face that doesn’t reach her eyes.

 

“And where exactly do you live, Mr. Belivet?”

 

Carol meets Therese’s eyes across the table, a silent apology in her gaze, but Therese fields the questions with aplomb.

 

“Previously, Paris.” That gets an excited gasp from Madeleine and a few of the other women, and Therese grins. “But right now my address is the RMS Titanic. After that, I'm on God's good humor.”

 

She’s refused to think about her life in terms of more than a day at a time. It’s too overwhelming. It’s why she’s sent the wedding invitations back twice now and chosen lavender bridesmaids’ dresses purely to spite her mother, with no other thought to them. If she doesn’t have to think of standing in a Philadelphia church with everyone and their mother watching her marry Harge, then it’s another day she can pretend the inevitable isn’t going to happen.

 

But what about Therese? Carol looks away, holds onto her fork more tightly. After they disembark, then what?

 

“You find that sort of rootless existence appealing, do you?”

 

“I have everything I need right here with me,” Therese says, after a moment. “I have air in my lungs, my camera. I love waking up in the morning not knowing what’s going to happen or who I’m going to meet.” Carol watches as Therese's gaze flicks toward her, followed by a smile, quick and glancing enough not to be pointed amidst watchful company. “Or where I’m going to wind up.Just the other night I was sleeping under a bridge, and now here I am on the grandest ship in the world having champagne with you fine people. I think life is a gift and I don’t intend to waste it. You don’t know what hand you’re going to be dealt next. You learn to take life as it comes at you, to make each day count.”

 

Molly reaches out, takes her glass, and raises it in a salute, and Carol watches with happiness as everyone else does as well, even Harge, though slowly.

 

“Well said, Terry!”

 

After, conversation flows more smoothly with drinks and without the fixation on Therese, Mr. Andrews throwing out facts about the ship and Harge talking about the most recent Supreme Court case. Carol follows superficially, too lost in learning more important things—how Therese takes her drink and her steak, how Molly subtly points out to her which fork to use, what type of dessert she favors.

 

But at the end, despite the toast and the warm talk, Carol watches as the dinner service winds down, as Harge and the other men stand and excuse themselves to the women and make no motion to include Therese. It’s only Mr. Andrews who asks, as an afterthought, already several feet from the table, “Joining us, Belivet?”

 

Carol watches, hoping, as Therese shakes her head.

 

“No, thanks. I'm heading back.”

 

“Probably best,” Harge says with a heavy and condescending pat to Therese’s shoulder. “It'll be all business and politics, that sort of thing. Wouldn't interest you.” Carol bites her tongue at the final insult heaped on so many already, watches as Harge nods goodbye to her and says dismissively to Therese, “Good of you to come.”

 

The men leave, and Carol glances back over her shoulder, sees her mother is deep in a conversation with Madeline and looks back at Therese standing in front of her.

 

She still has so much to ask and this is the last she’ll see of Therese, isn’t it? There is no place for her in third and there is no place for Therese in first, and now Harge has thanked her for saving one of his belongings and that’s that, isn’t it?

 

“They’re retreating into a cloud of smoke to congratulate each other on being masters of the universe,” Carol laughs thinly as Therese takes her hand to say goodbye, can’t think of anything else to say because it’s true, her future long ago parsed out and finalized in smoke-filled rooms over brandies.

 

“Not the sort of party I’m interested in,” Therese says with a wink, and Therese leave with another kiss to the back of her hand, Carol nearly dropping the note that Therese slips her surreptitiously.

 

She learns, once she’s left the dinning room and managed to shake Tommy from her trail with a run through the hallways, that third class knows how to party.

 

It’s loud and hot and she’s horribly overdressed for steerage, but Therese’s friends welcome her heartily, a dark-haired man and another woman in a suit that Carol knows on sight must be like her, and soon there’s a glass of deep brown stout in her hand and Therese’s arm around her waist, and the dizziness is not only from the drink and the dancing, Carol knows, because the band begins a new tune and Therese’s hand settles on the small of her back.

 

“We’re going to have to get a little closer,” Therese says, and her hand presses lightly, urging her closer. Carol follows, hand settling at the crooks of Therese’s arms uncertainly.

 

“I don’t know the steps,” Carol admits, and Therese starts moving.

 

“Just follow my lead.”

 

Later, all danced out, they end up on the deck, the stars out in the dark sky and Therese humming something as she smokes and Carol sitting next to her, smoking too, and there are no more thoughts of joining the waters below, only far more dangerous ones now about what it would be like to never go home, to keep walking forward with Therese and never look back.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

“I had hoped you would come to me last night.”

 

Carol cringes at his wording, stares down at the Earl Grey in her teacup and curses the fact that Harge’s wealth allows them a private promenade deck. What had seemed like a luxury when they’d first boarded now feels like a glass cage, trapping her alone with a man intent on controlling her every move, no matter how small.

 

One of the few things left by propriety to her own decision is the ability to say no to _that_ , at least until the marriage. It’s the last way she wants to start the morning, and she knows she’s playing with fire so Carol swallows before offering, “I was tired.”

 

“Hmm,” Harge starts, and Carol knows there’s more to come, none of it pleasant. He clinks his spoon in his coffee loudly, having stirred in cream, posture rigid, and Carol watches him from downcast eyes, puts her teacup down on the table. “Yes. Your exertions below decks were no doubt exhausting.”

 

Marrying Harge means accepting Tommy into her life, for as long as Tommy is in Harge’s good graces. And if not Tommy, then some other man, always watching to make sure no one damages Harge’s property.

 

“I see you had that undertaker of a manservant follow me.”

 

It’s said exhausted more than it’s angry. Apparently, the sentiment isn’t shared. Harge leans forward, brows furrowed as he puts down his own cup sharply, coffee spilling over the side and onto the white tablecloth.

 

“You will never behave like that again! Do you understand?”

 

The silence is deafening and as it comes out of her mouth Carol wonders what in the world she’s doing and whether, for the first time in her life, she’ll be hit. But the frustration bubbles up, because she’s seen men and women walk arm in arm around the deck, talking, laughing, rather than trailing after someone twice their age like a dog on a leash, and why is that so difficult to ask for, to be treated like a person?

 

“I'm not some foreman in your mills than you can command,” she says, voice tight, and gathers up her courage. “I am your fiancée—”

 

Harge sweeps the china off the table with a sudden jerk of an arm and then, for good measure, flips the table. Anything that has avoided being swept off is out of luck, and the entire piece of furniture falls to the wooden deck floor. In the empty space now between them, Harge steps forward, crushed and broken things snapping underfoot, and grabs her wrist. He does not twist or grasp hard enough to bruise, but his grip is firm and clear, meant to keep her in place, and Carol feels a mixture of fear and shame bubble up within her as Harge yells, face too close to hers.

 

“Yes! You _are_ my wife, in practice if not yet by law. So you will honor me, as a wife is required to honor her husband! I will not be made out a fool!" There is a jerk of her wrist now, as if to drive home the point, and the ache of it is a surprise. "Is this in any way unclear?”

 

Carol can only nod, out of a belated sense of knowing what’s best for herself and also physically, unable to find her voice from shock, and Harge lets go, walks away and, from the sound of the slam of the door, out of their suite entirely.

 

When they’d first been introduced at some cotillion, it had started small—Harge picking the route they’d drive around on their chaperoned outing, her drink because what could she know about drinking, the dress she should wear because he found it appealing. It had seemed almost romantic, because wasn’t that how it was supposed to be?

 

But now Carol understands, feels the pieces slide in together. It’s the first time she’s seen him truly angry, and she wonders if this is the worst he’ll ever become, last night's actions on her part the ultimate wound to his honor, or if there’s more yet to come should she ever step out of line again.

 

Breakfast lies shattered on the floor, their private promenade deathly silent now, and Carol cannot keep her hand from trembling, almost cuts her finger on the broken coffee cup as she kneels and tries to help the maid who has suddenly swooped in to clean up.

 

“Please, don’t, Miss Aird,” the maid says, grasping her wrist in a movement that means _I understand_ , and that overwhelming, animal need to fling herself from the ship comes rushing back, unhappy future rising up like a wave to wash all her happiness away.

 

Carol hardly flinches later when, on a walk around the promenade with everyone, she sees Therese peer out from a doorway, motion her over.

 

Harge and Tommy are speaking, her mother chatting with a friend, and she’s lingering at the rear of the group, forgotten. It’s laughably easy to stop walking, to step sideways, to follow Therese into what happens to be the first-class gymnasium.

 

It’s empty, which is unsurprising. Carol closes the door behind herself, settles against the wall tiredly and finds Therese peering at her with a look on her face she’s never seen.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

Ah. It must be what genuine concern is like. Therese looks like she wants to touch her, and Carol thinks of her hands on her last night, around her waist and just a little lower and Therese is _trouble_ , so Carol lets her head tilt back against the wall to avoid her gaze.

 

“I’m fine.”

 

She’s over the morning’s embarrassment. She’d been a brat, and gotten the thorough reminder she’d deserved.

 

There is a long silence that actually has Carol shift and look back at Therese, unsure of what there is to find—Tears? Anger? But there is only Therese watching her with a pained expression, shoulders slack as if she’s going to buckle under a weight too great to bear.

 

“I’m not an idiot,” Therese says softly. “I know how the world works. I'm a woman, and a poor one. I have nothing to offer you and I know that.”

 

Therese is actually impossibly wrong, which is why Carol reaches up, holds out her hand as if to quiet her. If she hears any more, she may lose her resolve.

 

 _Pick a course and stick with it,_ Carol thinks. _Unlike at the stern, when you cold have avoided all of this._

 

“Therese. This is impossible. I can’t see you.” It hardly sounds believable to her own ears, flat and without any teeth.

 

Therese lets out a breath, soft, and takes a step closer, and Carol rests her hand on her shoulder. She should tell her to stop. She should push her away. She should leave. But her body betrays her, and her head tilts down to meet Therese, and there are lips on hers and it’s nothing like the pecks she’s forced herself to give Harge.

 

Therese’s lips are sweet and pliant, asking for nothing more than a touch which Carol easily gives her. Her hand slides up from Therese’s shoulder, up the curve of her neck and to her nape, cards into the short hair and pulls her closer, runs on instinct and parts her lips and then Therese is pressing her up against the wall, a thigh between her own, and Carol is whimpering and tugging her closer, and then pushing her away because she’s about three breaths from tears.

 

“I just can’t turn away without know you’ll be alright,” Therese whispers, steps back respectfully, and Carol takes a shuddering breath, reaches up to wipe at her eyes, trying to preserve her make-up, and very nearly cracks at that. What would it be like to throw it all away and live under the pier in Santa Monica, trading photographs for ten-cent pieces?

 

“You're making this very hard,” Carol says with a watery laugh. The truth. “I'll be fine, Therese,” she promises, and reaches out to squeeze Therese’s hand. “Really.”

 

Therese gives her a look, one that clearly says she doesn’t think so. And so Carol lets go, reaches behind herself for the doorknob and opens it, starts to slip out of the room. “It's not up to you to save me, Therese.”

 

“You're right,” Therese agrees, raising her hand in a dejected wave goodbye. “Only you can do that, Carol.”

 

It’s a terrible note to leave on. Carol does it anyway.

 

She pretends to have gone for a smoke, quietly joins Harge and Tommy and her mother and her friend again, and goes through the rest of the afternoon like a shell-shocked soldier. It’s in the dining room, later that afternoon watching a mother chastise her daughter about her posture and etiquette over lunch, that Carol finally knows.

 

And it’s now or never, and so she waits until dinner, slips out as she’s finally allowed to take to her room to get ready, and finds Therese at the prow of the ship, flings herself into her arms, buries her face in the warm space between Therese’s neck and the collar of her jacket.

 

“When the ship docks, I’m getting off with you in New York,” Carol says, and feels Therese’s arms tighten around her.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

One scandalous photo, a shaken Tommy, and a run through boiler rooms and white and twisting hallways later, and they’re in the vast, high-ceilinged cargo hold of the ship, amongst mountains of luggage and crates and antique furniture and more than a few gleaming new automobiles.

 

It’s colder in this part of the ship, unheated, and Carol shivers, though not entirely from the lack of heat. It is only the second moment they’ve had entirely to themselves, and the first where no one can interrupt them, where they are totally and completely lost to the world above, and Carol feels the giddiness of the night slip away, replaced with an ease that is entirely foreign.

 

Therese lets go of her hand, ambles forward and up to Harge’s gorgeous burgundy Renault touring car, strapped down by its wheels to the floor to keep it from moving, and whistles lowly, unknowing.

 

“You ever drive one of these?” Therese asks, and Carol laughs at the absolute absurdity of the question, shakes her head as she walks up to the door and waits pointedly, a hand on her waist, for Therese to open it for her.

 

“No, that would be unseemly,” Carol answers, and Therese looks back, snaps to attention, walks over and opens the door right her right hand and offers up her left one to Carol. Carol takes it, steps into the automobile, and lets Therese close the door behind her. “That’s why we have a valet.”

 

“Ah,” Therese says, a brow raised, and Carol knows now it’s the face she makes when an idea comes over her—Therese walks around, climbs into the driver’s seat, settles behind the wheel neatly, and thinks twice but does not honk the horn. She does, though, take the wheel in hand, pretend to make a couple of turns and then looks back over her shoulder, grinning from ear to ear.

 

So many cages, and this one of many. Yet it hardly feels like it now.

 

“Where to, Miss Aird?”

 

She’s known. She’s known since the moment she’d touched Therese, the moment Therese had watched her walk away with Harge, a cigarette behind her ear and a concerned look on her face, the moment Therese had told her her real name and showed her her work and spoken at dinner and told her to save herself, and every single moment in between.

 

Carol rises up from the seat, pulls down the pane of glass that separates them, rests her arms on the edge of the seat, and leans in.

 

“To the stars,” Carol says grandly, and means it, her whole life unfurled before her, brighter and clearer now, and she reaches out, pulls a laughing Therese back bodily like Therese pulled her from the rail.

 

Therese settles into the seat next to her, and Carol slides her arm around her shoulder, pulls her in for a kiss, one that they can enjoy slowly, happily, picking up from the gymnasium earlier—or so she thinks.

 

Carol kisses her and, eventually, parts her lips, tries to deepen it, and very quickly breaks apart with a laugh.

 

“Miss Belivet, are you nervous?” Carol asks, unbelieving. Therese Belivet, world traveler, master of sleeping under bridges, winner of tickets onto maiden voyages in lucky hands of poker, now suddenly seems _reluctant_. 

 

“ _Au contraire, ma chère_ ,” Therese parries smoothly, but Carol laughs and hums in a way that says she thinks to the contrary, and she reaches out, takes Therese’s wrist lightly in her fingers, guides and places Therese’s hand on her breast. 

 

As cavalier about the motion as she is, the mood in the automobile changes. Therese shifts just a bit, and through the thin material of the luxurious dress Carol can feel the warmth of her palm and the brush of her fingertips against the swell of her breast, just above the plunging neckline of the dress. Thus far there have only been her own hands on her body, and it’s a welcome change, suddenly aware of sitting half in Therese’s lap, Therese’s free hand on her hip keeping her from slipping, her own heart beating in her ears.

 

“Put your hands on me,” Carol instructs, and tugs at Therese’s shoulder, drags her down against herself, a welcome weight above her.

 

Therese follows, steadies herself in the cramped and limited room with an elbow braced against the seat, hand sliding from her breast. But now Therese’s other hand moves slowly—from splaying against her hip to keep her from falling off the narrow seat, to ghosting over the curve of her rear, and to settling just under her thigh, suggesting with a light touch that Carol to raise and hook her leg over Therese’s hip, which Carol does gladly, and then for Therese to hold her there.

 

If their first meeting had been in a compromised position then, oh, this is a million times better and Carol’s not sure if she’ll ever be satisfied with anything less than Therese looking at her like that from between her thighs.

 

Carol feels her own breathing pick up, smiles against the nervousness and reaches up, squeezes Therese’s hand under hers, shows her how she likes to be touched. And that seems to help move Therese along for some reason or another because within a heartbeat Therese understands, massages her breast over her dress, leans down and kisses her.

 

Therese’s kisses are slow but not teasing, enjoying herself, and Carol lets her arm fall away from around Therese’s shoulders, slips her hands under Therese instead and to the collar of her shirt as they kiss. It earns an amused sound from Therese as she does it all without breaking the kiss, eyes closed, and the buttons slip through the eyelets easily under her fingers—one and then the other and then the next, until Therese’s shirt is opened as much as it can be and Carol reached down and tugs her shirttails from where they’re tucked into her pants and unbuttons the rest triumphantly.

 

Therese’s tongue meets hers and her hand pulls, angles her, and Carol slides down against the backseat just so, lies flat against it and feels Therese’s hips settle warm between her own as she slides Therese’s shirt off of her shoulders blindly and then her undershirt, breaks the kiss and opens her eyes to be able to press a hand to Therese’s shoulder, to push her up enough for Carol to cup a breast in one hand and take the peaked nipple of the other into her mouth.

 

It’s good and right and everything she never thought she needed, and Carol licks and sucks with eyes closed once again, gets a gasp out of Therese and Carol is _wet_ with need, draws Therese closer with the leg she’s got hooked over her hip.

 

Therese slips from her grasp and her mouth, and then Therese is flush against her, fingers slipping over the low collar of her dress and tugging, and Carol feels her own body respond, nipples peaking in the still-cool air between them, and then Therese’s mouth is on her and Therese’s hand is sliding down from her hip all the way to her knee and then back up again, slowly, rucking up fabric along the way and baring her thigh.

 

There’s little time or room to remove clothing, other than what Carol’s managed to convince Therese to lose, and the fact is highlighted as Therese slides down her body, places kisses against her covered body here and there, lower and lower, and there is nothing for Carol to grind against, only empty space between them as Therese’s mouth moves down—but Therese grunts, and she can move no lower, and there is only so much space in the Renault and they’ve used up all of it.

 

Therese straightens, sits up, hand still lingering on her bare thigh, and Carol hardly cares enough to hold in the whimper at the pause. But Therese moves to lay back over her, and Carol wonders later what it’ll be like without dresses and pants in the way and out of the confines of an automobile.

 

Carol rises a bit to kiss her, but is denied when Therese ducks her head, mouth finding a spot on her shoulder, kisses her way up her neck and, only when she’s driven Carol to wordless gasping, hand holding her thigh still, close to _something_ , does Therese nuzzle against her jaw, ask in a whisper, “Carol, can I touch you?”

 

In the limited space there is little room to work, but she’s not picky—can’t be, when she’s wet enough to rival the god damn _ocean_. Mouth or hands, it hardly matters—she clings to Therese regardless, can’t hold in a moan at the feeling of Therese in her, finally, moving and curling up, a thumb pressing strategically, and comes with a keen of Therese’s name, clutching at the seat above her, missing, hand sliding against dampened glass.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

There’s no doubt, several hours later, that the necklace was planted in Therese’s pocket. What in the world would she even do with that gaudy thing? Sell it, Carol knows is what Harge had so blatantly accused her of. But something of that fame and cost could have no hopes of being sold without alerting the authorities, and anyway, it’s not like Therese. She’s shown only interest in her, not her diamonds.

 

The water is as punishingly cold as Therese had told her it would be when they had first met. Carol can’t help but suck in a breath, heart stuttering as the elevator slides into place with a polite ding and icy water rushes over her feet and up to her shins.

 

“I’m going back up. I’m going back up!” the panicked bellboy says, reaching for the elevator’s control switch, and he can do whatever he want but Carol shoves the iron gates open, slogs through the water out into the hallway and tries to remembers Mr. Andrews’ directions. Down the elevator. To the right, the hallway, then left and right.

 

The hallways are flooded and empty, floating debris not yet clogging her way but showing up here and there—a floating suitcase, a broken chair, a sodden doll. Luckily, the lights still work, and so she continues on. But without a map the insides of the ship are as confusing as a maze, the halls all the same, and Therese is in none of the rooms she’s checked and Carol shivers, cold water slowly sapping her confidence.

 

“Therese?” she finally calls, and she wonders if Therese will even be able to hear her over the sound of gushing water, the ominous creaks and groans of what she can only hope is wood bending under the weight of water. How much longer do they have exactly? “Therese?”

 

“Carol!”

 

It’s behind her, and Carol runs toward the voice as much as she can, splashes through the hallway until she pushes open a door and finds Therese handcuffed around a huge pipe, now standing on a table to avoid the slowly rising water.

 

“Therese!” Carol cries, because she’s actually found her and she’s alive and unhurt, Tommy long gone, and the look on Therese’s face has Carol rushing forward as much as she can in the water, grabbing her and drawing her into a rushed kiss before Therese breaks it.

 

“Therese, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,” Carol says, fingers carding through short hair, brushing wisps away from her face, and Therese shakes her head.

 

“That guy, Tommy. He must have put it in my pocket.”

 

“I know, I know,” Carol says, because even though she hadn’t seen it it’s the only likely the scenario and the one she believes with all her heart. The only person Harge pushes around with his own hands is apparently herself—another man can be left to Tommy to accuse and accost.

 

“See if you can find a key for these,” Therese says suddenly, voice betraying a hint of frayed calm, and points with a finger at a glass case on the wall, filled with keys. “Try those drawers. It's a little silver one.”

 

Carol makes her way over, runs her hands over all the keys, reads the labels quickly, but none are applicable and in any case they’re all brass, and Carol slams the case shut, wades over to the desk—because they have to wade now and they really need to leave—and yanks on the drawer, pulls the drawer out with the force of it but luckily doesn’t drop it in the water.

 

But inside there’s nothing but a spare pair of manacles, some papers, and envelopes, no keys, and Carol’s already looked through the entire cabinet, a desk, and around the room before she’s forced to admit, “There’s no key in here. I’ll be right back.”

 

She leaves Therese, finds it’s already harder to get through the hall now, the water deep enough that slogging through it in her dress slows her down, up to her knees. She looks around, shouts up and down the hall, but there’s no one around and no one’s going to come _down_ into a sinking ship, and so she _thinks thinks thinks_ until her sight lands on an emergency hatchet behind a pane of glass.

 

Carol returns with it held steadily in both hands, and Therese’s expression flicks from overjoyed to worried at the sight of it as Carol approaches.

 

“Can you take a couple of practice swings?”

 

“No time.”

 

Luckily, the swing cuts the chain of the manacles on the first try with no injury, and Therese grabs her in her arms, kisses her once, sloppy against her cheek, before pushing her toward the door.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

Carol climbs into the lifeboat, someone steadying her arm as she does so and the feeling all wrong, and turns around once she’s inside. Someone asks her to sit, but she ignores them and the officers are all too preoccupied to follow up on that order. The lifeboat shudders and rocks, already lowering, and someone steadies her again, a hand on her arm, clear what she’s doing.

 

“There are boats on the other side that are allowing men in,” Harge reassures her, and adds even more quickly because she’s refused to leave once already, “Terry and I can get off safely. Both of us.” 

 

At face value Carol almost believes him. It’s possible, isn’t it? Harge is made of money and class gets you much further than lots of people would like to think, and he's just given her his coat and in this situation he can't possibly still be thinking of any sort of vengeance, can he?

 

“I'll be alright,” Therese agrees, and Carol bites her lip, feels the lifeboat drop in creaking, jerking lengths, belayed down by men who have far too much to do right now. “Hurry up so we can get going. We have our own boat to catch.” 

 

It’s the last she catches because the lifeboat is lower now, a whole deck below, but the lifeboat waiting to take them both can’t be true because Harge says something to Therese and walks away, the both of them too far away for Carol to hear, but there’s a sneer on Harge’s face and Therese doesn’t leave, only watches her with a sad smile, and Carol thinks of that first night, of Therese saving her, and pushes someone out of her way, gets a foot on the edge of the lifeboat, and jumps from it, grabs the railing of the sinking ship.

 

She’s really doing this, Carol things to herself, kicking against the metal hull for purchase, but it’s not thought with fear.

 

Someone helps hauls her over, grabs the coat Harge has put on her and heaves, helps her to her feet, and she says a hasty thanks, runs toward the door and to the staircase where she’s met Therese before.

 

It’s a scene of panic now, people fleeing from the dinning room and out the doors, no longer held open by valets, that lead to the deck. And Therese is there, taking the steps two at a time and practically flying down the grand staircase, and Carol grabs her hand when they meet, knows she has to run with her as fast as she can because something shatters not far from her right shoulder, and she realizes that if Harge can’t have her apparently no one will—especially not Therese.

 

Carol makes a split-second decision, doesn’t head further down the stairs and into a sinking ship but turns left, out the door that others as exiting from, and onto the promenade deck.

 

It’s swarming with people trying to run or to cling to things, and that buys them a moment's time in which Therese ask hurriedly, “Where are we going, Carol?” because to their left is the deck disappearing under water, slowly but surely, and to their right is the deck beginning to slant at an angle.

 

The only logical choice is to turn right, to cling to rails and doorways like everyone else is doing and stay on the boat for the longest possible amount of time, and that’s why Carol looks left, and it’s a gamble not in their favor but there, floating in water but still clearly attached to the ship, is a half-empty lifeboat struggling to cut away its bonds.

 

A few officers about are cutting at the heavy cables to get it away from the ship before it sinks and takes them with it, and even though this lifeboat looks quite frankly doomed it’s their best bet right now, Harge and Tommy only footsteps behind them and now with nothing to lose, and Carol pulls Therese with her to the edge of the railing, grips it and clambers over it and jumps into the lifeboat with only the bang and bruise of a shin.

 

Either the officers will manage to cut them away from the ship just in time and they’ll be safe, or the lifeboat’s not cut away fast enough and it goes dragged down with the bow of the ship and she has to think of another plan. In any case, it’s a better death than being shot by Harge.

 

Therese lands in the lifeboat after her with a clatter, and they scramble to the other edge of the lifeboat, quite tired of heroics and with no way to help anyway having neither a knife or an oar, and they sit away from the lights and the view of anyone still onboard, duck their heads and blend in with the last of the women and children being evacuated and hope neither Harge nor Tommy have the good sense or even simply the time to check the lifeboat.

 

The lifeboat is half-empty, its prospects never having looked good, too close to the now-almost underwater portion of the ship. If it’s not cut away soon it’ll be pulled down and fill up with water. But Providence must decide to cut them a break, because the men working on severing the cables from the ship shout in triumph, and the few officers aboard grab oars, start rowing as if their lives depend on it.

 

Therese grabs an oar too, seemingly one of the few boys on board, starts rowing, and only then, the lifeboat finally on its way out to sea, does Carol looks back, lets out a breath because there are people scrambling around on deck and that is a horrible sight but at least she doesn’t see Harge or Tommy among them.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

She sits with Therese on the deck of the Carpathia, backs learning against a deckchair, the two of them issued a blanket each by officers of the ship. They double them up, drape them around their shoulders, and Carol lets an exhausted Therese curl against her, Therese's head in her lap. They blankets are thick and woolen and keep out a large degree of the cold, and Carol cards fingers through Therese's hair slowly.

 

“Don’t take anything but a blanket,” Therese had said tiredly as they’d been pulled out of the lifeboat and helped aboard the Carpathia. “When I fell through, that’s all my dad gave me. Can’t warm up too quick.”

 

They could go inside, but it’s too bright, too warm, too untouched, and the Carpathia’s actual passengers check in with everyone, too chipper and upbeat and proud of lending a charitable hand, and it’s easier to sit outside where there are fewer people, other hurt or hardy souls who can’t stand to be around anyone else right now.

 

Harge’s coat on her still covers the once-opulent dress, oversized and mannish and heavy, and with a messy appearance and anonymity comes a certain degree of freedom, Carol finds. There is no one she knows here, no one critiquing the way she holds Therese’s hand or the way they share a blanket, no scandalized eyes wide at _Carol Aird_ sitting with a boy from steerage. For all anyone knows, Therese _is_ her husband.

 

And out here, it’s easier to avoid the thought of Harge still alive. If he holds onto the need to live half as much as he did the need to dominate her and everyone around him then there’s no doubt he made it onto a lifeboat of his own, one way or another.

 

Therese is asleep and they’re still many miles from land, exhaustion finally seeping into what feels like the very marrow of her bones, and worrying about something like that could haunt her the rest of her life, and so Carol tries to put the thought to rest, draws the blanket over her head like a hood for warmth and to blend in, and finally falls asleep.

 

She’s awoken only when it begins to drizzle, cold and wet on her face, and she sits up, feels Therese stir softly against her lap. It must be morning by the light of the overcast sky, and there are people walking around now, talking in all languages—but that one phrase sticks out no matter what the language, _New York_ a sort of prayer, and Carl knows they’ve arrived.

 

But something tells her not to jump up, to run to the rails with everyone else to see the magnificent Statue of Liberty of the skyscrapers of the New York skyline, and it’s the voice of an officer several feet away saying, “You won't find any of your people back here, sir. It's all steerage.”

 

Carol holds still, blanket still draped over a large portion of her face, doesn’t dare peer underneath it but hears the familiar tap of well-made Italian shoes on the deck go by slowly behind her. There’s the deckchair between them and she and Therese are bundled up well, facing away, but she doesn’t breath until someone next to her begins to cough, fortuitous, because if there’s anything that Harge and her mother and the rest of them all would think even less of than steerage passengers it is _sick_ steerage passengers. The footsteps of who can only be Harge begin to fade away, having made his rounds quickly, and then there is the officer wishing him good day as he returns to his own deck.

 

And that’s that, Carol thinks, and despite everything they’ve been through in the last few hours can’t help but smile in relief.

 

It’s raining heavily by the time they pull into New York’s harbor, Therese now awake and sitting with her, arm around her and running her thumb soothingly over the fabric of the jacket's sleeve. The ship docks without issue, and a rumor runs through the steerage passengers onboard that the press is there waiting at the pier. The Titanic, and the Carpathia by extension, have certainly made headlines. They linger, still sitting, and let others disembark first because the last thing Carol wants is anyone taking her picture, as Carol Aird or as a survivor.

 

In due time an immigration official makes his way to them, licks the tip of his pen before putting it to paper and asking, “Can I take your name please, ma’am?”

 

She’s mulled it over during the night, knowing only that Carol Aird is a thing of the past. Likewise, Therese’s ticket hadn’t even been under her name. There will be no record of either her or Therese surviving.

 

“Belivet,” she gives him. “Carol Belivet.”

 

If Therese is surprised she makes no show of it. The immigration officer moves onto Therese, writes down Terry Belivet and leaves, and with that Carol relaxes, lets Therese help her up, blankets now divvied up and drawn around their individual shoulders. The blankets, the thick wad of cash in the pocket she’d discovered the night before, and the clothes on their backs are the only thing they have between them now. How long ago it already seems that she'd dined with Therese for the first time, surrounded by the trappings of luxury.

 

“What was it that you said you needed, back at dinner?” Carol asks in amusement, takes Therese’s hand in hers and heads for the gangplank.

 

“The air in my lungs. My camera, now at the bottom of the Atlantic.” That’s sober, but Therese breathes out, a grateful sound, squeeze Carol's hand and adds, “And some very fine company.”

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

 

They take an apartment in New York together, Therese and Carol Belivet, and thrive.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
